


its time to dance;  in 3rd party, for the sake of stirrin it up

by lupulangia



Series: tacks for snacks [13]
Category: Original Work, orig - Fandom
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 22:58:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6678874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lupulangia/pseuds/lupulangia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'll bet you just might swallow your tongue...</p><p>This takes place after Claire returns to the Godes estate to play guitar with Daniel</p>
            </blockquote>





	its time to dance;  in 3rd party, for the sake of stirrin it up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kissmoi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kissmoi/gifts), [lalaietha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalaietha/gifts), [celeloriel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celeloriel/gifts), [dostia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dostia/gifts), [loaths (knitastrophe)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/knitastrophe/gifts), [Bitterroot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bitterroot/gifts), [Wilburhampton_223](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wilburhampton_223/gifts).



> I'm sure you wanna give up the ghost with just a little more poise than that?

She awoke with cuts on her face, as if ravaged by a canine. She had no memory of anything; save for a few naked moments.. meaningless, disharmonious and somewhat embarassing moments of the chairs and the guitars. She had known that he was being manipulative; passively, at most; but she had not expected to black out.... only something like hydral chlorate or diazepam could/would have such an amnesic affect...  
Since her father had died however, Claire had been lucky to find a single day without episodoes of amnesia... especially those following wild dreams, which were becoming ever prevalent since the original encounter with the Godes. ..and in blunt honesty, the amnesia was comfort... However unkind...  
Her fingers were sore already when he continued to teach the Eminor, vigorously, with poor cadence, chaotic, archaic... then to G major, C major, back again... her middle finger was bleeding, the Walnut neck of the cheap guitar was absorbing as if sponge.... as if a sun bather begging for burn, longing for blister and peel...  
Her wrists were rope burned, but she hadn't exactly REMEMBERED a rope... only the vague echoes of a voice, a cool but exaggerated...almost animated anger. She couldn't see at first: but she remembered one thing

, the "prep" school sefl defense...

three major arteries exposed in anterior standing position, distance to each.... She was dizzy, nauseaus, tired... but felt around for something.... anything... she was barren. Next step... three direct hits to obscure/lose consciousess from standing (anterio/posterio/latero) position; elbow or knee is most direct cut. she could hear her detainer approaching... he would attempt to disarm her with a smile, to

(the killer in me is the killer in you)

The key was rather absurd, considering all things, especially that the door hadn't been locked; but even moreso that it didn't need to be inserted, or turned; he merely approached with what appeared to be a key and suddenly she was vulnerable. It was a woman; she said her name was Ether; Claire felt rather dreamlike, fugue or so to speak. She could hear her comiserate, cut up, even make some sort of anectodes in the corriodor, an unfamiliar corridor...  
"we must be on the left side of the wall...."  
she thought. All eyes fixed on her as she walked past.

they weren't human. They were in forms,in shapes, shifting, morphing, moving, ever so evasive and ever so cuious... She recognized her defecit just as one reached out to touch her, her reflexes slow, her thoughts speeding up just in time to react but just too slow to be effective; moving, as if water, her opponent air; he clutched her left wrist, pulled it knee-level, swung her elbow hyper extending the arm, causng a sharp crack at the shoulder; a crack audible enough to stop the guard; to stop the banter of the crowd, to make her suddenly feel like she was three levels above the basement. She was all at once an observer in a doll house; a transcendent; a giant paintbrush in the sky had unveiled a hidden villian- a culprit, an antagonist to say the least.  
Automatically she shifted her stance in fractions of a second, her hips posed just as if to move her torso with enough force to

She awoke with cuts on her face, her wrists rope burned, her shoulder displaced. Her body felt as is a bruse had beset her on all sides as the inequity and tyranny of EVIL MEN.  
Instict led her to two thoughts; water, weapon. She heard no, saw no water... she could not see, she felt around in the dark; felt the cut on her face, salt of her own skin stinging to remind her she was alive. To remind her there were many more to come.. She could not remmeber where she was led, or dragged for that matter, but she remembererd to check her body for mortal wounds, and more importantly that which might cause such wounds. She wore a ring. It was smashed, on her right middle finger, causing it to swell, With saliva still would not budge; she resorted to bending the setting- out, twisting her finger intensely, the pain making her ears ring and vision null; lightning, static; it sat at a slight angle, 20 degrees from her flesh...  
"some good that is.."  
The instinct of a fighter is to the bloody, miserable, god awful lord you have no idea what you are getting into kind of please put me out of my agony and into death. The kind of thng only a true survivor ever experences; the kind of thing Claire knew very much about; not because of the incident, or because of her father, and not because of the days in the desert with hands sweaty but steady and sliding but synchronizing with the rifle, his bolt, his assemly. Click hard left, forward; two piece removal, one, two; pull back toward stock; basic M16,A2 love making, add the human effects of weeping pores amongst thicker skins, add the IMPOSSIBILITY of concealing shape, color, or movement in death valley; add the improbability of sustainable hydration and mental acuity; less the CONVENIENT resources of any kind of guide, structure, order; when the hills are black and measure 114 Fahrenheit at surface, there are not many leaders to go behind. One must then create in his own effect a sort of plan. One must move swiftly as there is no wind to move with. In fact it is not necessarily swift that he moves; it is more important the stillness which he can achieve. can he become the sand? Can he become the stone by which he pretends to perch ( there is no stone... Only mirages of ocular deception; only memorized patterns of default of human survival; the heat permeating the creativity, the projection, the possibility.). Can he wait, as if dead, without dying ? And for how long.  
That-  
That being the wishbone, the crux, the way. How long can you play dead? How trained are you in holding of breath? How long PRACTICED you in holding torsoe poised, face amasked, pallor, tension ( yet released..)and perspiration in moderation unseen in said conditions? A day? Two? Can you honestly recall how many suns have set upon your aching lobster skin at this point? Or did you dream?

No, those experiences were not what had truly prepared her for pain. Those experiences had by all means contributed, factored, weighed in; but her pain threshold had been ultimately determinded by Dawn.

**Author's Note:**

> Was it God who chokes in these situations?


End file.
